


And Now My Time Has Come (I'll Follow the Sun)

by oilpainter



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Butterfly Effect, F/M, Fluff, George is a good friend, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, John is a little shit, M/M, McLennon, Oop suddenly it's 1962, Panic Attacks, Paul & Ringo are bffs, Paul is stressed, Paul plays at God, Paul wants to save John and George, Period-Typical Homophobia, Realistic Reaction to Time Travel, Ringo is confused, Romance, Slash, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, You might cry, i cried, young beatles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-14 15:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpainter/pseuds/oilpainter
Summary: Paul McCartney passes away peacefully in his sleep in 2030.He doesn't expect to wake up... except he does. And suddenly he's with a young John, George and Ringo, all alive and happy in 1962.Is this the afterlife, or a second chance at life? What does he have the power to change? Can he stop John and George from dying young?





	1. Play the Game "Existence" to the End

**Author's Note:**

> Hi ^~^ I'm new to AO3 and this is my first work here. Idk how long this fic is going to be, probably 20+ chapters, but I also have a bad habit of abandoning things and I don't have the story planned out yikes. 
> 
> I hope I wrote Paul & Ringo ok in this chapter. I'd like to apologise in advance for any medical, historical or factual inaccuracies. I'm doing a lot of research for each chapter, to find out exactly what the Beatles did on certain days in September 1962 so if any of it is wrong blame Wikipedia/Beatles Bible. Also, I'm British so I use British slang and I've been looking up some Liverpudlian slang to try and fit that in too. If you don't understand a slang word, look it up and maybe you can learn some Scouse with me!
> 
> Disclaimer: This work is based on real people (RPF) and is loosely based on real events, but is a work of FICTION. The story will include eventual Paul/John in a romantic relationship because I'm trash for slash. No disrespect meant to the Beatles or their personal lives. I don't own anything and I'm writing this for fun. This disclaimer will only be in the first chapter but applies to the whole story.
> 
> Enjoy!

8th December 2030

Hospitals had never exactly been Paul McCartney’s favourite places to be. Ever since he was a wide-eyed teenager with a teddy boy haircut and a leather jacket, they brought back painful memories of hours staring at blank walls in waiting rooms and holding his dying mother’s hand. Then later, bad memories of being in hospital for his father, George and Linda. The smell was too chemical, the walls too white, every surface unnaturally clean, and the doctors rarely brought positive news. This hospital was only slightly more pleasant than the others, but he still felt an uncomfortable feeling of anxiousness in the back of his head. Or perhaps that feeling was just the brain tumour.

The walls were a bleak white with medical posters and a few paintings of Scottish landscapes covering the cracks in the paint. His bed was comfy enough, with two pillows, just how he liked it. There was a vase of tulips on the bedside table and the window was open a little, with a soft breeze and the smell of rain drifting through the room. It was an unusually warm day for December at 15°C – well, these days it was more usual, what with global warming and all that.

He’d opted for private care and a private room, as it was quieter and more peaceful this way. No one staring at him, no press. Just friends and family, and kind nurses in his final days.

Over the last few weeks he shared stories, looked through old photographs with his kids (well, adult kids now), and exchanged hugs and kisses with his loved ones.

Amelia, a nurse in her 30s, was into The Beatles’ music and would sometimes bring in a dusty, ancient record player for him to listen to their old tunes. It was so long ago now that he barely remembered the songs and every note was a surprise. He sometimes thought ‘_wow that sounds great, I never would have thought of doing that with the bassline’,_ then remembered he _wrote_ that bassline. And hearing John and George’s voices still tugged at his heartstrings. Amelia had said that, while he started to forget the melodies and the lyrics, their legacy continued and new generations heard Beatles music and fell in love with them. She shared how her 2-year-old daughter waved her arms around and sang along to the ‘na na na na’s in Hey Jude. That got a tired, nostalgic smile out of Sir Paul.

And yes, there was no doubt about it. These were his final days. He felt it in the weakness of his bones and the effort it took to breathe. But he was ok. The medication numbed him, and it was a pleasant feeling. He had lived a long, happy and successful life. And now he almost understood what George Harrison had said to him days before his own passing. ‘I’m at peace with my mind, body and spirit.’

Stella, Mary, Beatrice, Heather, James and Nancy had all come in over the past few days to say their last goodbyes, and he had tried his best to be strong for them and not break down crying every time. Today he was expecting another visitor – Ringo, his brother. It would be ok if he cried with Ringo. By God, they’d certainly seen each other at their best and their worst throughout the years. Ringo would probably call him a soppy, miserable old man and then cry with him. He worried about Ringo and how he would feel when Paul was gone. The man tended to get angry, drunk, and lonely. And as an exceptionally healthy 90-year-old he seemed to have no intentions of passing away soon.

A knock on the door drew McCartney out of his mind, where he had lost himself in his thoughts. He gave a weak cough and called out quietly, “Come in.”

“Hey, Macca,” came a familiar Liverpudlian accent, and the door swung open to reveal one of Paul’s favourite people. “How you doing?”

“Not as good as you, I reckon” Paul quipped, his breath laboured and speech slow. “I swear you look younger every day. What are you, 40? 50? Maybe you could quickly share some of your elixir of life, give me a couple extra years and cure me cancer?”

“Haha, funny,” Ringo’s voice dripped with sarcasm. He shut the door behind him and made his way over to sit on the side of Paul’s bed, adjusting his friend’s pillows and taking a hold of his hand. Paul was right though. There were considerably more wrinkles on his hands than Ringo’s, and even Ringo was surprised that his friend, two years his junior, appeared older and more tired. But – he supposed that was a side effect of dying.

“Well, stars have a lifespan of billions of years,” Paul murmured, taking comfort from his brother’s hand in his. His words were slightly slurred, and he stumbled a bit but did his best to continue. “You’re a Starr, Ringo. Of course you’d be the last of us to go. You’re a star. I’m… I never appreciated you enough but you’re a wonderful man and...”

“Oh, bugger, don’t ya get all soppy on me now Paulie,” a teary-eyed Ringo replied. “You’re a miserable old git, you know that?”

“That makes two of us then.”

Ringo rolled his eyes. “I love you though, man. For all your… enormous ego and annoyingness and sentimentality… you’re a great guy too.” He cleared his throat and Paul could see his old friend trying to hold in the tears. “I’ll… I’ll miss you.”

Paul was feeling more and more exhausted so all he could manage was a loose squeeze of Ringo’s hand and a quiet “Love ya too.” He hoped that Ringo got the message of what he wanted to say but couldn’t. The words left unsaid mattered just as much as the words he said.

There was a moment of comfortable silence as Paul stared at the tulips and a bee buzzed outside the window. He gave a heavy sigh. It was coming. Every minute it was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

“How do you feel? Are you comfortable? Anything I can get for you?” Ringo asked gently. It must have been hard for him to watch his lifelong friend dying but he seemed to be holding it together well enough.

“I’m ok,” Paul whispered. It was a lie. He wasn’t ok, but he was as ok as he could be considering the circumstances. Palliative care was truly a godsend and he felt relaxed and comfortable. “I don’t hurt much. I feel… at peace.”

“Peace and love?”

“Peace and love, my friend,” Paul repeated Ringo’s favourite saying and gave him his best smile. He wanted to raise an arm and give him the peace sign but it was taking so much effort just to speak. Still, he soldiered on. He had always been quite a chatterbox and didn’t want dying to stop his words. And he certainly didn’t want to die with words left unsaid. “That’s what I feel. I feel peaceful and happy and I know my time has come but I still feel so… incomplete. There’s a song in my head about love and death but I’ll never get to write it down or record it. And… it’s a masterpiece… really, I swear to ya, my best song yet. There are words… I’ll never get to say. Life is so short and… I have so many regrets. There’s still so much to do.”

Ringo laughed quietly. “I’ll never get you. Even on yer deathbed you’re writing songs in your ‘ead.”

“Not just that,” Paul murmured. “I just… there’s so much I wanted to say to John. And I never got the chance to, or I was too self-centred to not say it. I regret it so much.”

“Would you go back, if you could?” Ringo asked.

“In a heartbeat.”

“What exactly do you regret?” It was obvious that Ringo was trying to push the conversation on as he saw Paul becoming more lethargic and heard the beeps on the heart monitor getting less frequent. He was keeping Paul engaged so he didn’t fall asleep… he wanted as much time as possible for his old friend. He treasured every second that went by.

“Sometimes… I dream about him. John,” Paul breathed, and though his voice was weak it still held as much reverence and love for John Winston Lennon as it did in 1962. “I dream that George and ‘im made it to retirement like us old codgers as they should have done, and in my dreams we talk for hours on the phone. That’s it… we just talk. And at the end of the phone call we’ll always hang up with a ‘love you, old pal, see you soon’ and I’ll wake up with a pain in my chest that feels so much worse than my physical pain. Because I regret not appreciating him – and George – when they were alive. I loved them both so damn much but I was a right twat sometimes. I wish I could go back to the 60s and tell myself to stop being an arsehole.”

Ringo chuckled. “You were kind of an arsehole, man. But we all were. John and George included. We all argued, and we were all just as much at fault as the others for our… falling apart.”

“I’m a dying man,” Paul replied. “Let me wallow in the past and have my regrets.” He shifted in the bed and, with great effort, moved over a little. “Here – come here. You know – you’re like a brother to me.”

Ringo looked a little alarmed. “Macca, you’re mad. Stop exerting yourself.” But he still climbed in next to his brother, sitting with his back against the headboard and legs above the covers, holding the other man close to him. “Oh,” he muttered. “I think I just heard me bones creaking.”

Paul seemed to be trying for a laugh but just let out a breathless wheeze. “Welcome to… old age, pal. You’re a bit late for the party.”

“I’m two years older than you, y’know,” Ringo pointed out.

“Yeah… but you’re an immortal being and nothing can convince me otherwise.”

“Ha. Ha,” Ringo gave a sarcastic laugh. “And you really died in 1966 and nothing can convince me otherwise.”

“Oh, shut up,” Paul whispered.

His breathing slowed, and his eyes closed. Ringo’s heart leapt in his chest. He worried for a moment that Paul was gone and his last words would be “shut up”.

Ringo was about to panic but it seemed the other man was clinging onto every last thread, and he piped up after a few seconds, in a voice so soft Ringo could barely hear. “I wonder how he felt. In those last minutes.”

Somehow, Ringo had a vague suspicion of what Paul was talking about.

“John. In his last minutes,” Paul continued in a whisper, opening his eyes and staring right into Ringo’s soul. It was the most vulnerable Ringo had ever seen his friend and he felt a sudden tightness in his throat and moisture starting to build in his eyes. In Paul’s last minutes, when he struggled to breathe or move, he wanted to talk about John. It was such a Paul thing to do.

“Scared,” Ringo murmured. “Very scared, shocked and alone. It was such a horrible and sudden way to go. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, not even the man what shot ‘im.”

“It was 50 years ago today…” Paul murmured, eyes glazed and unfocused, staring into the middle distance. “I can see him… standing right there, at the window and he’s smiling at me. He looks… so young and happy. Only 40 years old… he was… taken too soon. I want to… be with John again.”

Ringo kissed his brother’s head, tears now streaming down his face. It was tearing him apart to think of John’s last moments, but he felt comforted knowing that at least Paul was about to pass away painlessly in his sleep. Even as one of their closest friends, Ringo had never fully understood the extent of the friendship between Lennon and McCartney. There had been something about them both when they were together that was so… transcendent and magical. Even to this day, he knew there were secrets Paul was keeping about John, and it was like parts of John would forever stay locked away in Paul’s heart, never to be opened again. Ringo wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he hoped they would be reunited again. After all, nothing else could have been Paul’s last words, except for a fleeting wish to be with John.

“Then go to him. Sleep well, Macca. And I’ll see you again soon.”

Paul smiled peacefully and fell asleep, giving his last breath. The world ceased to exist.

There was John. John Winston Ono Lennon, holding a hand out to his best friend with that same old cheeky grin on his face. His eyes were shining.

Paul took his hand and followed him into the light.


	2. Nothing is Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQi3UkJbIGM
> 
> Yes, the chapter titles are Beatles song lyrics because I'm unoriginal like that. :)
> 
> Please leave comments because it lets me know that people are reading my work, and positive responses inspire me to write more! Even if you're just pointing out spelling mistakes and whatnot, I'd be very grateful. Thanks and enjoy!

_Everything felt muffled, like he was underwater. He could hear comforting voices murmuring from far away, not intelligible enough for him to make out the words, and the opening guitar chords to Blackbird were floating around somewhere. A faint smell of strawberries and his mother’s perfume… then the smell of smoke and freshly cut grass and mud on boots… he was staring up at the sky and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He was staring straight into the sun without it burning his retinas. Or was he? No, now he could only see empty space. Just plain white empty space. There was a gentle breeze ruffling his hair and a sound like curtains fluttering in the wind and a birdsong. A baby was laughing somewhere and it was the most joyous he had ever felt –_

_Was this a place between death and life – was it limbo?_

_Or was this death? Did Heaven really exist?_

_Could he meet his loved ones again? _

_He could barely remember his own name right now but there was a deep ache in his heart, like he was missing someone and wanted to be reunited. And he knew they would be reunited soon. _

_His happiest memories were replaying. That’s what this was._

_Yes – there were three men sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket singing, drinking tea and playing the ukulele. The garden was peaceful and it felt bittersweet to be reunited once more… his voice harmonising with George’s… _

_“Everything will be ok, Paulie,” John was reassuring him, pulling him into an embrace and burying his head in his shoulder, long hair tickling his friend’s neck. Oh yes. That was his name. Paul. But he was fading away and John’s words were getting harder to hear with the bloody ringing in his ears. It felt like he was falling, or about to pass out. But he clung onto John, wanting to stay with him for as long as possible. “You’ll be happy… we’ll both have… so many more years… God I miss you, but it’s ok… we’ll see each other again, my friend.”_

_The high pitched noise in his ears reached a screeching crescendo and he was falling, he was being pulled painfully out of his relaxing state between dreams and reality… falling off the London rooftop with his bass in hand… falling down the Austrian Alps on his skis… his heart was in his throat and he felt like he was going to die again… he was screaming…_

4th September 1962

Paul landed with a gasp and a muffled shout. The pillows were soft underneath him and he struggled with the covers for a moment, pushing the duvet off with his feet and sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open. His breathing was heavy and panicked.

Trying to control his breathing, he took a glance around to observe his surroundings and hopefully feel less disorientated. He noticed the room looked vaguely familiar but not familiar enough that he could recognise where he was. It was as if he’d seen the room before, in a photo or a dream, or a distant memory. The curtains were hideous with yellow and brown stripes, there were dirty socks and newspapers strewn about on the side table, and an alarm clock announcing the time as about quarter to ten. Sounds of traffic and sirens drifted through the open window.

_Well, this is certainly an odd afterlife,_ Paul thought to himself. He glanced down to see he was wearing old pyjama bottoms and a navy-blue dressing gown that he thought he’d thrown out 60 years ago. Trying his best to focus on reality (was this reality?) he ran a hand through his hair, which felt suspiciously shorter and less wiry – softer.

There was a telephone on the desk. Not a modern mobile phone with a touchscreen, but an old landline phone with a cord and rotary dial… God, that was retro. He hadn’t seen one of those in decades.

Paul’s eyebrows furrowed together. What was going on?

Having mostly pulled himself out of his panic, he came to notice the knocking at the bedroom door. In fact, he wondered how he hadn’t heard it before, given how loud it was. Everything still felt slightly hazy, as if he were in a dream or waking up from a long rest. But he was definitely breathing, and he felt alive… perhaps he was just in a not-so-peaceful afterlife and that was God knocking at the door, popping in for a quick hello and a cuppa tea?

The knocking at the door continued, getting angrier. Someone was shouting and he had to tune himself in to hear the words, ignoring the faint ringing sounds in his ear.

The voice and the accent were familiar, but Paul suddenly felt so dizzy… and violently ill… just listening to that voice…

An infuriated John Lennon’s shouts permeated through the door. “Macca! Get your arse out of bed before I fuckin’ drag ye out of it! You’re an hour late to the studio and me an’ the chaps are getting right pissed off at ya!”

John… it all came rushing back. The only way he could hear his old friend’s voice was if they were both dead. The nausea hit him suddenly. He died from a brain tumour. Oh God. He was really dead. He was dead… and this was some bizarre afterlife where everything was like it was in the 60s, with John still alive and corded telephones and ugly floral print wallpaper…

It sounded like his ex-bandmate was attempting to knock a hole through his door. “James Paul McCartney – have you nothing to say for yourself, ye bastard?”

Steadying himself with a hand on the side table, Paul tried to swing his legs over and step out of bed, but his legs were shaking and he overbalanced, collapsing to the floor with a bang and bringing the duvet with him. He gave a pained grunt. His voice sounded different to his own ears, higher in pitch – in fact, his whole body felt different. He felt slightly taller, stronger and healthier. His sight was clearer and his hearing better. Still feeling drowsy and a little bit faint, he stayed on the floor in a pile of limbs, brown hair and sheets. There were stars appearing in his vision and he couldn’t bring himself to move. If he was dead, why did he feel a dull pain when he fell? If he was in the afterlife, why did he have such a searing headache?

“Right – I’m coming in! If you’re having a wank, well then that’s your problem ‘cause I’m walking right in and I warned you!”

The door swung open to reveal John Lennon squinting into the dark room; a young John Lennon with short cropped hair and a rounder face and a youthful sparkle in his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time Paul had seen him in 1980. John’s words were harsh and angry but even just seeing him like this – seeing him mad at him – was enough to make Paul realise just how much he had missed his best friend. He tried to hold back the waterworks and failed. Even though he wasn’t the same John – not the one with long hair and those damn round yellow glasses – it was still John. A happy, young John.

The curtains were opened and Paul winced, tear tracks making their way down his face. He felt like a right idiot for crying in front of his lifelong friend, but at least he had an excuse. Being dead and all that.

“Paul!” John made his way over to the mess of a McCartney curled into a ball on the floor in his duvet. “Are you hung over on a Tuesday mornin’? What on Earth are you doing down there and what are you crying for? The hell is wrong with you, lad? You look bloody awful!” He crouched down and poked his shoulder. “Come on, time to get up, princess.”

Paul’s breathing was getting shallower again and his throat felt dry. “I’m just – I – Johnny – oh shit, I’ve missed you so much,” he managed, bringing the sheets tighter around himself. His head pounded again and he closed his eyes for a moment.

“What – I saw you yesterday – are you off yer head on something?” John asked, worriedly peeling back one of Paul’s eyelids to see if his pupils were dilated. Paul blinked rapidly and gave a weak glare at his friend. “Hmm… you’re not high and you don’t smell like booze at all… look a bit ill though. Are you feeling alright mate?”

“No… no, no, I’m not alright. I’m dead. I’m dead… I died but I’m here with you. So happy to be here… missed you so much.” Paul mumbled incoherently. He sniffed a little and tried to hold back the sobs, breathing heavily and leaning back against the bed.

“Right, well that’s good to know, and up we get, ya little pansy,” John lifted the younger (or older?) man up under the arms and plonked him down on the side of the bed. Paul’s eyes were red and there were bags underneath, betraying his exhaustion and current mental state. 

“How’s… how’s George? It’s been so long… I didn’t want to snuff it and leave Ringo but I missed you guys and… and I was on me deathbed y’know. Well of course ya know what it’s like… God I was so scared,” Paul muttered, pulling the other into a hug and holding him close, feeling nostalgic at the scent of strawberry shampoo and smoke. He was John. It was really John. 50 long years without him and here he was, younger and happier than ever and it felt like he had never been taken from him in the first place. John looked to be only in his early twenties. If John looked so young, how did Paul look? His hair felt softer and his bones felt stronger. Was he in his late teens or early twenties too?

John’s shoulder started to get suspiciously wet and Paul was finding it hard to keep breathing steadily.

“Really – have you lost the plot? You look very much alive to me. What’s all this rubbish about dying? Were you hallucinating? I told you to stay away from that shit but you haven’t taken anything have ya? Oh – you actually do look a bit feverish to me.” John pulled away from the embrace and put a hand to the bassist’s forehead, which was drenched in a cold sweat. “Are you sick? Did you hit yer head on somethin’?”

John’s barrage of questions only made Paul feel even worse. He groaned at the pain in the back of his head and took in a few sharp and quick breaths.

Paul was rarely one to get panicky. Sure, at the start of his rise to fame with the Beatles, sometimes getting mobbed by thousands of teenage girls could get a bit overwhelming. And then the 1966 Cherry Bomb Incident… waking up to a phone call on the 9th December 1980… the doctors giving him a brain tumour diagnosis… apart from those few moments, he was a generally chill guy. But right now he was seriously struggling to breathe. “I’m… dead, I’m dead, I died,” he kept repeating.

When he wasn’t struggling to catch a breath, he was letting out a loud sob or mumbling something incoherent.

John was starting to look increasingly confused and concerned, although Paul could barely tell through his blurry vision.

The room felt like it was getting darker. Was that the sun getting dimmer or his vision going? Where did the blue stars in front of his eyes and the rushing sound in his ears come from?

There suddenly wasn’t enough oxygen in the room and –

John’s voice seemed to be coming from miles away. “Alright – I’m calling the lads over… cancel the studio session…”

Paul couldn’t help but think that, although the sound of a rotary phone dial was nostalgic, it was an awfully slow way to call someone… 60s technology was useless…

“Come on George, pick up…”

John’s voice talking on the phone faded away into nothingness apart from the sharp yell he gave as Paul passed out, falling backwards into the soft sheets of the bed for a second time.


	3. A Long Long Time Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from George's POV because who doesn't love George.
> 
> I'd also like to say thanks very much to these people who left comments on the first 2 chapters: Rioviolina, Auroralunatica, CelesteFitzgerald, chanderson, MartianMadness66, mistermoonlight & PaulsParabolaEyebrows. I really appreciate your kind words & response to my story! :-)

George Harrison was not having a great day.

For starters, he’d woken up to the sound of Ringo shouting at him that it was time to go and he’d drive off without George if he wasn’t quick enough. He’d sleepily glanced at the alarm clock and gave a startled yelp upon finding he’d slept in for 45 minutes.

Secondly, he discovered that the black eye he’d received two weeks ago – from an angry fan who wanted Ringo out of the band and Pete back in the band – still hadn’t faded. Instead of having breakfast and a shower, he only had time to get dressed, slap some makeup on to try and cover up the bruise, and head out the door.

Hungry George quickly became Moody Teenager George.

To top it all off, they’d arrived at EMI studios on time only to find 1/4 of the Beatles missing. Perfect Paul McCartney, who was always at least an hour early to everything, ended up being over an hour late. Oh, how the tables had turned. He was always nagging at George for sleeping in and being late; and now his hypocritical tendencies were showing.

“If he’s not coming anytime soon… d’ya reckon I could nip down to the offie and get a muffin?” George moaned after nearly an hour of waiting and rehearsing without any bass. His stomach was rumbling louder than his guitar. “I’m bloody starving.”

“Nah, you’re alright, lad,” John replied, sounding chipper. “He only lives round the corner… I’ll go give him a shout, be back in 5 minutes. ‘s not like him to cancel on us so maybe he’s hungover or something. I’ll get something for you on the way back.”

God, how George hated people who were happy in the mornings. Lennon even looked well dressed and seemed to have combed his hair. Then on the other hand, there was George with his hair sticking up in every direction, mismatching socks and a bruised eye barely covered up by makeup. He felt like an unorganised mess. “Ta,” he sighed and leaned back, spinning around on the swivelling chair a bit, strumming a couple of chords. “You’re a lifesaver.”

John gave a cheerful wave and pulled a face at one of the sound engineers when his back was turned, getting a laugh out of his bandmates. Then he skipped out of the door, grabbing his coat on his way out.

It was pretty obvious to George that John must have got laid in the morning. Him and Cynthia had been married for a little over a week and were still in the obliviously happy honeymoon period. The recent news of her pregnancy hadn’t seemed to have disheartened him much, and if anything the two seemed even more in love. George was mildly surprised that the ‘dad panic’ hadn’t crept in yet, since John was 21 years old, acted like an irresponsible kid himself, and had never had a father figure of his own. He suspected that John wasn’t ready for kids yet, especially with their career just taking off, but didn’t want to bring it up to his friend.

In the back of the studio, Ringo was messing around on his new drum kit and seemed to be tuning it. For the short few weeks that Richard Starkey had been in the band, George was already highly impressed. He’d known the older lad for a few years already, having met in Hamburg in ’60, and they had performed together a few times already when they needed a backup drummer. But ever since Ringo formally joined the band and started to take part in rehearsals and gigs, George saw his true skill in keeping the rhythm consistent, never speeding up or slowing down, and how he fit in perfectly with the rest of them. George had never even seen Pete Best tune his drum kit.

And already, he was pretty fond of the new drummer. Ringo was a swell guy. A bit reserved at first, but they were slowly getting him used to their loud and brash personalities. Well, mostly John’s brash personality. John could be a cheeky bugger sometimes. But Ringo himself seemed to have a great sense of humour and endless amounts of energy… George expected that soon they wouldn’t be able to get him to shut up.

George had been more than happy to take that punch for Ringo in the Cavern Club. The two were already starting to become pretty good friends – and he always stuck by his friends.

While fiddling with his guitar tuning, George was starting to get a little impatient. “It’s been ten minutes already,” he muttered under his breath. He sighed and set his guitar down. “God’s sake,” he complained louder, and Ringo looked up in surprise from his shiny new drumkit. “The kid says it’s so vitally important that we record his effin’ songs until our throats are sore and our fingers are bleedin’ and now he doesn’t bother to show up?”

Poor Ringo looked a little awkward, not quite used to the Beatles’ group dynamic and having not witnessed one of their arguments yet. “Well… I’m sure there’s a reason for it,” he said rationally. “Maybe ‘e’s ill?”

“Not like Macca to get sick, he rarely does,” George said, shrugging. “Probably got drunk off ‘is head and now he’s hungover.”

Just on time, the phone started to ring. George, who was closest, gave one last bored spin on the swivelling chair, and headed over to pick it up and stop the blasted ringing noise. “That’ll be John with Paul then,” he sighed. “Hey lads, what’s going on?”

John’s panicked voice came through the phone. “You guys need to get to Macca’s place now. I dunno what’s going on – he’s gone barmy! He keeps muttering and saying he died or something – I think he might have a fever, maybe he had a nightmare or a hallucination and now ‘e’s panicking, he looks so scared and I can’t get no sense out of the bugger – just please come round as soon as you can? Forget the studio session, no point without ‘im there anyway. We need to figure out what’s wrong – I don’t know if he’s taken something and if I should get him to the ozzy or not and–”

George raised an eyebrow at Ringo, who mouthed ‘What happened?’ and twirled his drumsticks around nervously. “Hey – slow down, Johnny,” George tried to calm his friend down, interrupting his worried rambling. He looked around uncertainly at the people in the studio – George Martin gave him a questioning glance, wanting to know what was going on, probably impatient to get started. George faced away from the others and lowered his volume. “You need to calm down and think straight – it’ll be no use if both of ya start hyperventilating on us. It’s only our second time recording at Abbey Road… what kind of impression is this gonna have on the record company if we all up an’ leave?”

“Doesn’t matter!” John said sharply. “We can bloody well sing Love Me Do another time!”

“Alright, well – I’m putting this on you, Lennon. Brian won’t be pleased.”

“Y’know Eppy’s queer and ‘e’s got a thing for me,” John sounded exasperated at the youngest Beatle. “I’ll just apologise and flutter me eyelashes at him and it’ll be right as rain.”

“Alright,” George conceded. A lion growled from somewhere on the street. No, wait. That was just his stomach. He wondered if John could hear it through the phone. “… I’m just going to quickly pop to the shop on the way–”

“No you’re not, Harrison –”

Then there was a sudden commotion on the other end of the line and John gave a startled shout of “Oh, shit! Macca!”

There was a crash sound as John presumably dropped the phone.

“Hey – John? What was that?” George’s eyes widened. Ringo looked fed up at being left out of the conversation, so he put his sticks away and made his way over, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“What’s going on?” Ringo whispered to George, putting his head near the phone so he could have a listen. Nosey bugger. George couldn’t bring himself to care though, being too anxious about the sudden silence in Paul’s place.

“He’s – unconscious,” John said after a few moments, breathing heavily into the receiver. His voice sounded a bit crackly and was breaking up. George was surprised the phone hadn’t broken completely when it had been dropped. “Come over… please? No one cares if… fuckin’ hungry...”

“Ok,” George’s throat was suddenly dry. “Ok. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

He hung up.

Ringo looked confused. “So… the recording session is cancelled? Paul fainted? Who should we tell?”

“We’ve got to go,” George muttered, grabbing a hold of Ringo’s arm and starting to pull him with him. It wasn’t the best decision, but they didn’t have time to explain to anyone why they were suddenly leaving. “Leg it, mate.”

They defiantly ignored all calls from people behind them as they sprinted out the door and into the street, Ringo almost tripping over his feet on the way. George Martin was shouting something about getting Epstein to fire them all, but neither Beatles could bring themselves to care. Not when Paul was in such a bad state. They’d explain it later. Or alternatively – John would flirt with Epstein a bit and they wouldn’t need to explain themselves.

A couple of Londoners stared at the two young men who seemed to be running for their lives. They were more like a blur as they sprinted past. George’s heart was beating furiously, and he was gasping for breath. He really wasn’t much of a runner and evidently it seemed like Ringo wasn’t either.

They made it to Paul’s flat in two minutes straight, internally thanking God that McCartney was staying so close. While Ringo bent over with his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath, George fumbled in his pockets for the spare key to the three-story block of flats.

“Come on…” he muttered. “Where is it…?”

Remembering he’d left it at home because he’d slept in and didn’t have his usual bag of stuff, George sighed and gently banged his head against the door in frustration while Ringo looked on in amusement. Feeling out of his luck, George tried the doorknob and –

“Oh. It’s open.”

At least something was going right today.

They stumbled up the stairs to the second floor only to find the door to Paul’s flat wide open. There were soft voices coming from inside. Hopefully that was a good sign, and Paul was conscious again.

“John, Paul? It’s us… everything alright?” Ringo called, still looking a little lost, closing the door behind him and kicking a couple pairs of shoes out the way.

“Aye, he’s ok – in here,” John called from the bedroom down the hall. He still sounded worried but not as panicked as before.

They made their way into Paul’s bedroom to find the bed covers and duvet in a mess on the floor, a broken phone still hanging down, and a Lennon with his arm around a pale McCartney sitting upright against the bed’s headboard.

Paul looked about as awful as George had felt this morning. His hair was a rat’s nest, he was so white he almost looked like a ghost, and he was just staring at the calendar on the wall with a glazed look in his eyes. John tried to hand him a water bottle but he ignored him and continued staring at the wall blankly. He seemed to be completely out of it.

_Well, at least he’s not panicking or fainting anymore_, George thought to himself. And, for all the ruckus he had heard through the phone, he was grateful Paul wasn’t dying, like Lennon had seemed to be implying. They did tend to be quite the pair of overdramatic bastards sometimes. He was glad that at least John had been there to catch his Princess Paul when he swooned.

“September,” Paul muttered, everyone turning to stare to him after a moment of silence as Ringo and George caught their breath. His eyes were still fixed on the calendar and he seemed to have zoned out the rest of the room, not acknowledging that George and Ringo were there. “September… September 1962… John… I died…”

George was glad he was speaking and responding so it didn’t seem to be a medical emergency, but he exchanged an alarmed glance with Ringo when Paul started muttering nonsense. He’d known Paul since they were in school together, but he’d never seen him act like this.

“Yes, that’s right,” John was trying to comfort Paul, but he looked slightly alarmed. “It’s the 4th September. Did you hit yer head when you passed out? You remember us, eh? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Paul blinked a bit and took in a deep breath then averted his gaze from the calendar towards John. “No, no… I’m ok, just a bit… shocked. Course I remember you. John… it’s really you. I missed you.”

His voice sounded a bit teary.

George shuffled over from the doorway and perched on the edge of the bed, placing a reassuring hand on the bassist’s shoulder. Paul jumped in surprise, having not noticed the other two Beatles were in the room. “Hey… y’know you can tell us anything, right?” George asked, biting his lip. Paul pulled him into a hug and George gave a surprised, “Oh! Ok. Yep, that works too, lad.”

George awkwardly patted his friend’s back. He made eye contact with John behind Paul’s shoulder as he felt a bit of wetness on his neck. Was Paul crying? This hugging thing was starting to go on for too long and he was starting to feel a little out of his depth. As a Northern man, Paul rarely showed his emotions like this.

‘The hell is going on?” he mouthed at John.

John shrugged, looking just as confused as him.

Was Paul high or drunk? Did he have a fever? A concussion? Did he need to go to hospital? George’s worried thoughts were swirling around his head and he couldn’t seem to control them.

Then, Paul gave a sharp intake of air, and let go of George. Instead of emptily staring at the wall, he was now staring blankly at Ringo, who was still standing self-consciously in the doorway, looking as bewildered as the rest of them. “No, no, no,” McCartney mumbled. “This isn’t right. You’re not meant to be here –”

Ringo looked mortified, his face turning red. “Oh – yeah, that’s fair – sorry, mate, of course. I know I’ve overstayed me welcome. I’ll just be going now –”

“No, wait,” John interrupted, rolling his eyes and gesturing for Ringo to take a seat at the desk chair, which he did, wringing his hands nervously. “Of course yer staying. What do you mean, Macca? I asked him to come over. D’you not remember Ringo?”

John seemed to be convinced that Paul had hit his head and ended up with a concussion and amnesia – and that was a possibility. He could have hit his head last night and they wouldn’t have known, or he could have hit his head on the headboard when he’d passed out earlier. Where were Paul’s mysterious illness and anxiety coming from?

“I – yes I know Ringo – I just… I died… and so did you and George… and Ringo didn’t… I don’t know how we’re all here… together…” Paul trailed off and put his head in his hands, leaning over the side of the bed. He seemed to be breathing heavily again and George took him into his side again, hugging him, fiddling with his hair and trying to comfort him. Paul closed his eyes and leant into his friend’s embrace.

“Right, Macca, we’re going to the doctors,” John decided. “There’s clearly somethin’ going on with you… we need to figure out what’s going on and make sure you're ok.”


	4. A Little Help from my Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written a Beatles fic so as I said before, if you think they're a bit ooc or I got events wrong, let me know.
> 
> & Thank you lover_of_blue_roses, Quantum_Algae, blobfish_miffy, AngieW and huesoehilo for your lovely comments!  
Aaa really I'm so happy to have 60 kudos & 400 hits in 2 days, it's way more than I expected! I'm glad you're enjoying the story and your feedback is really helpful :")

John’s words were buzzing around Paul’s head, but his brain still felt lethargic and panicked and they weren’t sinking in properly.

The image of the old calendar on the wall was seared into his mind. When he blinked, all he could see were the words “September 1962”.

What the hell was going on? He had just died at age 88; it was real, it was painful and it had definitely happened. Given that he had died, it didn’t seem like too much of a stretch to find himself reliving 1962 with younger versions of his deceased friends. He had heard of people who had near death experiences, having visions on their deathbeds, or hallucinations of an afterlife. So perhaps that’s what was happening to him. Or (and this was the option he didn’t really want to contemplate too much) perhaps he really was in a kind of afterlife, reliving the happy days of his youth. After all, no one really knew what came after death.

But one thought was nagging at the back of his mind. How could Ringo be here, with him in the ‘afterlife’? Surely Ringo would have ‘arrived’ some considerable time after him?

Ringo Starr was an anomaly and his presence negated all of Paul’s previous theories.

The only logical (and yet, so highly illogical) conclusion that Paul could come to… was that he really was in 1962, somehow back in the past. But how? He didn’t have a TARDIS or a DeLorean time machine… and all that was science fiction anyway. How could the impossible suddenly become the most probable?

He considered for a moment that maybe the last 68 years of his life had all been a dream he’d had after going to bed on the 3rd September 1962… and that it had just left him confused and messed up in the head. But no, how could he have dreamt all that up? He had far too many memories of the ‘future’; of the Beatles and their growing popularity and eventual split, his years with Linda, then Heather and Nancy, raising his kids, the end of the Cold War, the Civil Rights movement, 9/11, the development of technology like self-driving cars and mobile phones, the disaster that was UK politics in the late 2010s, the outbreak of the HIV/AIDS virus in the 80s and the cure that was developed in 2027; the list went on. How could he have imagined all that? _Why_ would he have imagined John Lennon being shot outside his home in New York in 1980, and waking up to that awful news?

_Time travel is starting to be the only realistic option,_ came a little voice in the back of his head, and he quickly pushed it back, trying to dismiss the impossible.

Someone was talking and Paul tried to concentrate on their words through the dizziness in his head. John was shaking him.

“Paul – come on, say something,” he was muttering. “D’ya hear what I said?”

“No… no doctors,” Paul managed to gasp out. George started to rub his back in silent support and passed over the water bottle, which Paul took huge gulps from with shaking hands.

The idea of going to a hospital again brought a sick feeling to the back of his throat and he swirled some of the water round in his mouth, looking a little green. He couldn’t face going to a doctor or a therapist and having to tell them that he died as an old man in 2030 and inexplicably found himself in 1962, oh and by the way John and George were dead and he and Ringo were multi-millionaire celebrities with knighthoods to their name.

He’d be dismissed as insane.

Not to mention, the prospect of going to a hospital after all he’d gone through in the months between his diagnosis and his death… and then the recent memories of not being able to breathe, helpless on a hospital bed… God, no. The doctor wasn’t an option and it never would be. Nor was a psychiatric nurse – if he was really in the 60s again, with the attitudes at the time he didn’t want his bandmates to think he was off his rocker.

“I’m fine,” Paul continued, trying his best to sound coherent and put together, although his voice was a little shaky. “I’ll be ok, lads, I just… had a bad dream.”

“Must ‘ave been one hell of a dream!” Ringo exclaimed, leaning back on the desk chair and restlessly tapping a rhythm against the desk with his fingernails. Ringo’s old habit brought a small smile to Paul’s face, and the familiarity brought comfort to him. Some things never changed through the decades.

If this was September 1962… Paul wasn’t the best with dates, but he thought Ringo might have joined the Beatles permanently in the summer of 1962, meaning he’d only been with them for a few weeks to a month. This Ringo wasn’t the same Ringo – he was the nervous, energetic 22-year-old Ringo who hadn’t yet found his place in the band and was itching to prove himself. Not the 90-year-old Ringo with whom he shared inside jokes, reminisced about the old days and talked about his deepest regrets on his deathbed. But still, Ringo was Ringo and no matter if he had seven decades less life experience, he was the same man.

Paul didn’t feel like mentioning to Ringo that his hairstyle looked pretty bad. After all, at least he had hair and wasn’t balding yet. And their bowl cuts had been a bit of a disaster too, even if it was a part of the identity of the early Beatles. Maybe he could change that…?

“What happened in the nightmare? It must ‘ave been pretty bad, to get you in a state like this, Macca,” George said, sounding concerned. “You said one of us died?”

Paul tried not to look at George, fearing that he’d start crying again. Honestly, he’d done enough crying already and wasn’t sure if he’d have enough tears left but didn’t want to risk it. How could he have forgotten what a kind, understanding and gentle man George Harrison was? He was almost always there for him, from adolescence to middle age, through the good times and the bad. George was such a good friend, and why did he not spend enough time with him? In the years leading up to 2001, why did he only see him once a year or less? He had started to forget what his friend’s voice sounded like, the calm and peaceful aura surrounding him, how his hugs felt, how he bit his nails and brushed his hair out of his eyes in a certain way, how he talked less than most people but almost always had something important to say.

It was now really starting to hit him that he was back in 1962, and Paul felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He discreetly pinched his arm a few times behind his back and the sharp pain grounded him. But it didn’t wake him up.

“In my dream… well, John and George, you two died and… then I died too, years later… and it felt so real…” he trailed off. Giving a half-truth would at least be better than a complete lie, and maybe it would help get them off his case. Nevertheless, it still hurt to tell his young, oblivious friends about their imminent deaths. “And, well, I just felt a bit odd waking up this mornin’, that’s all, wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming or not, y’know.”

John’s squinted a little and Paul remembered he must have been in the stage when he refused to wear glasses. It mustn’t have been good for his eyesight. But it was endearing. “How did I die?” he asked curiously.

It was an innocent enough question, but Paul felt his heart skip a beat. If he told a 21-year-old John Lennon that he was going to be murdered, if he forewarned him and told him to not move to New York… if he was really in the past… could he stop it from happening?

“I don’t know,” Paul blurted out, the answer even surprising himself. The truth was too painful to admit. “Um… it’s fading away now, like, can’t remember much. And I think I’ll be good, no need for the doctors.”

George and Ringo made eye contact and seemed to unanimously decide to let it go and give the man a breather, but John didn’t seem convinced and was looking at Paul with a hint of suspicion, probably aware that he was lying. John knew him too well.

With the edges of his vision clearer and his head not pounding as much, Paul shifted a bit and stumbled off the side of the bed, ignoring George’s silent offer of support on his arm and John’s protests that he had just fainted and shouldn’t be getting up yet. He was determined to keep up the appearance of seeming fine. He still felt a little dizzy, his ears were ringing, and his limbs didn’t seem to be fully coordinated, but he made his way over to the wardrobe to get dressed and go on with his day. The clothes in there were vaguely familiar but weren’t anything Paul would have worn today… yesterday… well, in 2030. He settled on grabbing a plain white long-sleeved shirt, black trousers and a tie – like what the others were wearing. It felt weird to again be in the matching outfit stage. But for the moment he decided to just keep playing along with this weird hallucination-dream-time-travel situation he was stuck in.

George cleared his throat. “We should… get back to the studio?” he addressed Paul, and Ringo nodded in agreement. “Me and Ringo just sprinted right out of there with no explanation and Martin looked kinda mad. We’ll go back, tell ‘em what happened and cancel the day’s session. If you’re not feeling up to it?”

Paul shook his head in protest. “No! No, I’m fine! Don’t ye dare cancel anything!”

John chuckled and gave Paul a pat on the back. “Well, there’s our usual slave-driving Macca back again. Ain’t nothing gonna stop ‘im from getting in a hard day’s work.”

John’s phrasing of words prompted Paul to briefly wonder if they’d written A Hard Day’s Night yet. He might have to get out the old lyrics notebook and brush up on some of the songs he’d written up to this point, to get himself familiar again and make sure not to mention any songs that didn’t exist yet. God, this was turning out to be rather complicated. But for now, he just needed to not mess anything up and figure out what in hell was going on.

He glanced at that damn calendar again. ‘September 1962’ was still jumping out at him in large red letters, but he tried his best to focus on today. ‘4th September: Abbey Rd studios recording session 2,’ it read in his own handwriting.

Paul silently thanked his younger self for being organised. “What songs are we playing today?” he asked to the room in general, pulling on his shirt and tie.

Ringo raised an eyebrow. “Um, y’know we went through this yesterday… we’re recording Love Me Do and How Do You Do It.”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” Paul lied, trying not to get John pestering him about potential amnesia again. Jesus, he’d forgotten how much of a mother hen John had been, always worrying when people close to him were the slightest bit ill or hurt. He supposed that came from John losing so many loved ones in his youth. It had never really gone away – he distinctly remembered how overly protective John had been of his son Sean when he had gone to visit in ‘79. It was one of the things he admired most about John, but currently one of the things he appreciated least.

If they were new to recording at Abbey Road, though, and if they were recording Love Me Do… Paul really couldn’t afford to mess up. Love Me Do was one of their earliest hits. Could it have been a song that launched them into fame? Was this, right here, the start of the Beatles’ career? And was it up to him to keep them going along the same path?

He’d already slept in for an hour, then had a mental breakdown on the morning of what should have been their second day recording in Abbey Road. Neither of which had happened last time. He’d already unintentionally changed the events of the 4th September and couldn’t afford to change it more.

“Right, we’ll be heading off then, I’ll let everyone know to continue as usual and that you were just a bit ill but the both of ya will be coming along soon,” George decided, pulling a bemused Ringo with him out the door. “And we’re stopping for food on the way! I’m bloody starving!”

Paul missed a lot of things about George. But the younger lad’s bad temper when he was hungry was certainly not one of them and he was glad he wasn’t Ringo right now.

When the other two had left, Paul picked up a pair of clean pants (well, he hoped they were clean anyway, since he didn’t exactly remember where he kept the dirty laundry 70 years ago). John, although he’d seen it all already in their years of friendship, turned around to give him some privacy as he changed his trousers.

“Are you... are you sure you’ll be ok, Macca?” John asked after a moment of silence, and Paul could practically hear him biting on his lip in worry. It seemed his panicking-fainting episode had affected John more than he thought. His question tugged at Paul’s heartstrings. John used to always keep up his public image of being tough and invincible, and Paul was one of the very few who ever got to see his vulnerable side. It felt so unbelievably good to know that once again there was a John Lennon who cared for him very much, and who he cared for equally. Nothing about their relationship at this time was strained or tense, and they were just on the verge of conquering the world together. He struggled to hold back the tears.

“I’ll be fine, John, nothin’ to worry about,” he replied, keeping his voice even and not betraying his emotions. He finished dressing, poked John on the shoulder so he could turn around and gave a bright smile, feeling the happiest (and youngest) he had in decades. John smiled back and it felt like a weight had been lifted off Paul’s shoulders.

“Ok,” John conceded. “But just take it slow today, yeah?”

Paul nodded. Given the amount of times he had pinched himself, he figured that he really had time travelled. For the moment, instead of continuing to freak out and worry everyone, he decided to go along with it. After all, it’s not everyday you get to see your deceased friends alive and happy again. And he was so _happy_ to be back with them. It was like not a day had passed. 

On their way out, he stubbornly avoided looking in mirrors and windows, not quite ready to see his reflection yet.


	5. Try to See it My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In following chapters, to avoid confusion George Harrison will be addressed as George, and George Martin will be addressed as Martin. 
> 
> I'm partly sticking to real events and partly being creative with it! But, the Beatles did actually record How Do You Do It on the 4th Sep 1962, and weren't very pleased with it. And on the 11th Sep 1962, Ringo really was replaced by a session drummer, and commented "It was devastating - I hated [George Martin] for years; I still don't let him off the hook!" (Ringo Starr, Anthology). 
> 
> This chapter is 4k+ words, about double the length of the others. Let me know if you prefer longer chapters and slower updates, or shorter, more frequent chapters! Thank you to smothermeinrelish, monique, atoles, whoa_music_is_cool and AngieW for leaving comments! I'm trying my best to reply to every comment :")

It felt like Paul was watching a movie about his own life.

If someone had asked him to describe a random day in 1962 in exact detail – to tell them what he had for breakfast, what conversations he had, what the weather was like – he wouldn’t be able to remember a thing. After all, it was almost 70 years ago and when you’ve lived for so long, the days and years start to become indistinguishable from one another. At a stretch, he might have been able to remember that in ’62, Stuart passed away, Ringo joined the Beatles, and John married Cynthia.

But this –

This felt like he was constantly living in a state of déjà vu. He could barely concentrate because every moment; when George Harrison dropped his cup of coffee with an ‘oops’ and went to get another one, when Ringo started to work out the beat for P.S. I Love You, when George Martin told them to speed Please Please Me up and they’d have a number one hit… he’d experienced this all already and it was seriously messing with his head.

Before, he wouldn’t have been able to remember the 4th September 1962, but as he relived it, it would come back to him. At one point, George complimented John on his improved harmonica playing, and Paul remembered what John said next before he even said it: “Well, Harrison, I expect to be in jail one day and I bet ya I’ll be the guy playing the blues on a harmonica. Got to get me practice in.”

It was disorientating to be one step ahead of everyone else when the start of a conversation would prompt long-forgotten memories to resurface.

Paul had to admit that he wasn’t very focused while they rehearsed Love Me Do. He was staring around the studio, still just in complete shock that he was in _Abbey Road_ in _1962_ as a _Beatle_ again. God, how many people could claim that? He was a member of the biggest band in the world and he was the only one who knew just how successful they were going to be. And he’d _died as an old man_ and _come back to life_ at age 20. It was insane.

His eyes wandered to the upright piano in the back of the room on which he’d composed dozens of songs and hammered at the keys until his fingers ached. And that microphone there; where John, George and he had stood for hours recording the three-part harmonies in Because over and over until they reached perfection. Even the plan on the wall of the song order for the upcoming album and the sketches for the cover, were vaguely familiar. The only thing missing was Yoko Ono, sat at John’s side and watching his every move, maybe screaming a bit.

The corners of Paul’s mouth twitched up. Perhaps there were some things that he didn’t miss about the 60s.

“Alright,” Martin piped up when they reached the end of the ‘love me do’s. Paul lowered his bass sheepishly, having not been paying enough attention to even realise they’d reached the end of the song and that the others were chatting about something or other. Thankfully, no one noticed his inattention. He’d played the song enough times now that it was as easy as breathing and his fingers would slide along the frets from muscle memory. It was one of the few songs he could remember. “Sounding good, boys. But I think John going so quickly from singing to the harmonica solo isn’t working and we need to give him a chance to breathe… Paul, would you sing that line instead? The ‘love me do’ just before the harmonica part?”

Paul nodded along, not wanting to voice his internal frustration.

All day, he had been told what to do with his music – which lines to sing, who should sing which part of the harmony, which songs they should and shouldn’t include on the album – and it felt a little patronising. Here he was, a veteran of the music industry with decades more experience than everyone else in the room put together. Hell, he must have written at least 500 songs in his career. And he was being treated like a kid again.

_You _are_ a kid again. Stop being so self-centred,_ the little voice in the back of his mind reprimanded him. He pushed the thoughts back.

Of course, Paul’s issue wasn’t with George Martin. Martin knew what he was doing, he was a brilliant producer and really helped create the early Beatles’ sound. But it was getting on Paul’s nerves that he couldn’t have the creative freedom he wanted; the creative freedom he’d had later in his career.

He felt like he couldn’t just say ‘actually, John should sing that line and it’ll sound perfectly fine. We’ve performed it lots of times and he can easily switch between singing and harmonica. It doesn’t really work for me because it’s too low for my range and I remember when the song was released my voice just sounded wobbly and crap at this part.’ No one would believe him.

So Paul kept his mouth shut and went with the flow. He shouldn’t interfere with things that happened last time anyway.

They took a short break then went straight into recording Love Me Do. It sounded identical to, well, the track from 1962. It felt strange to hear John breathe exactly when he knew he was going to, make the same little inflections of his voice at the end of a phrase, and play certain notes on the harmonica which were improvised but which Paul had heard many times before. Ringo’s drumming was a little off and Paul felt bad for him, recalling how in another take of this track, he’d been replaced by a session drummer and was reduced to playing the tambourine. Poor Ringo hadn’t been thrilled about that. Paul silently willed him to catch up with them. But the drummer was still making a few blunders and seemed to be sweating nervously.

God, Paul didn’t know how he couldn’t see how anxious Ringo was last time. He hadn’t even been in the band for a month and already he was expected to record a full album with barely enough time to learn the songs, and they’d gone straight into recording in Abbey Road studios. It really showed what a great musician Ringo was, that he was able to keep up with them at all. The man was like a living metronome.

After they reached the last ‘love me do’ and Martin ended the recording and gave them the thumbs up, Paul decided to take a calculated risk.

“Can we record it again?” he asked, biting his lip. “I messed up the bassline near the middle and it sounded wrong.” He knew he was about to fuel his reputation as an obsessive perfectionist a couple of years too early. John and George turned to look at him in surprise, neither of them having heard Paul’s (non-existent) mistakes or even Ringo’s (barely noticeable) mistakes. 

This was something that he was fairly certain didn’t happen last time, with all of them being pleased enough at how the song sounded and just wanting to get it over with. But he was also tentatively curious; now he was (almost) sure he was in the past, he was starting to wonder just what could be changed. Would the tiniest of actions cause the world as he knew it to change? Could he even change anything at all or would the ‘timeline’ correct itself in response to his meddling?

Well, Ringo drumming on a track he didn’t drum on before could hardly change the world anyway.

His curiosity for the situation he was in overcame all logic.

And, on an unrelated note, Ringo looked a bit dissatisfied with his performance and Paul wanted to put him out of his misery and give the lad another chance. Maybe a bit of a confidence boost.

“I… thought it sounded fine,” George disagreed quietly. “I’d rather just go onto the next song.”

John squinted at the others and shrugged. “Sure, why not? We got loads of time.”

Paul tried to hide a smile at that. He really did have loads of time. If he was stuck here in 1962, and lived to 2030… mentally he’d be about 156 by the time he reached his deathbed again! Imagine that, celebrating his 156th birthday! _Beat that, 90-year-old Ringo,_ he thought. _You’d get a kick out of this._

Ringo cleared his throat. “Er, yeah, I’m up for doing it again, lads.”

Martin was looking a little impatient and Paul’s guilt (for keeping everyone waiting nearly two hours that morning) suddenly twisted in his stomach. He wondered what George and Ringo had said earlier to get the Martin, their producer, and Norman, their recording engineer, off Paul’s case. God, he really hoped the news of his mental breakdown hadn’t got out. And now he was delaying them more. They probably wouldn’t be leaving the studio until late in the evening.

“Right, well that’s three against two if you count me,” Martin said reasonably, giving in to the vote. “We’ll start again then.”

No one protested.

Paul blinked.

If that had been the Beatles in the late 60s, that almost-argument would have escalated into a shitstorm. It might have ended with George throwing a chair, John getting high, and Ringo walking out on them. It suddenly hit Paul just how ridiculous they had all been in their later years, arguing and disagreeing over the tiniest of things. No wonder they had fallen apart, when they were all as volatile as a ticking bomb.

_I have another chance,_ he thought. _I can make things right._

They went straight back into recording Love Me Do, and Paul was pleased that Ringo’s drumming was improved a little and he seemed less nervous. He was happily keeping the beat for them and banging his head along, hair flying wildly. Paul felt like this was one of their best run-throughs yet. His bassline was immaculate as always – although he could barely remember other songs from their early days, Love Me Do was one they performed at almost every gig in the first few years. And John’s harmonica solo was somehow even better than the other recording.

After Love Me Do, they segued into recording the next song, How Do You Do It. Again, Paul wasn’t too pleased to be playing the song and he could tell from how unenthusiastic the others were that they felt the same. He just knew that he’d messed the bassline up a few times, not being as familiar with this song. It sounded good enough, but just wasn’t the right song for them. And John didn’t seem to be putting much effort in, not having much of an interest in this kind of pop song. It didn’t really go with their early rock and roll sound. But, Paul knew that this song wouldn’t make it onto the album anyway so he wasn’t too worried.

It was taking every ounce of his strength to not just announce a song they’d written in the future like ‘hey, here’s a little song called A Day in the Life, maybe we could go find a 40-piece orchestra and try that one out instead?”

If he introduced songs earlier than he was supposed to… if they were too ambitious and got it wrong… he didn’t know how it could affect their success. For now, he vowed to only make small changes, like Ringo drumming on Love Me Do. And then he would see how it turned out.

“Right, that sounded like utter crap,” John muttered once Martin called cut and was out of earshot.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Ringo shrugged and twirled his drumsticks around. “We did it well and Martin said it’ll be a hit.”

“Well Martin may think it’ll be a number one but I just don't want this song, we don't want to go out with that kind of reputation. When we go back to Liverpool we’ll be a laughing-stock, singing mushy love songs like this. We want something different,” John grumbled. “He’s underestimating me an’ Paul’s song-writing abilities, y’know. Love Me Do or Please Please Me should be our single.”

Paul was surprised at how perceptive they had all been back then. They had all been so sure of the sound they wanted and were willing to put their foot down against the record company to get their way. They were cheeky bastards. But it sure paid off. 

They were interrupted by Norman and an unfamiliar man making their way over. The man was greying, portly and middle aged, holding a press camera and a lit fag between his lips.

Now, the press in the 60s… there was another thing Paul didn’t miss. They had been so obnoxious towards them, always getting right up in their faces to take photos, asking personal questions and occasionally shouting abuse. And then in 1980, when he was hounded by the press and asked to give his reaction to John’s death hours later… well, they weren’t Paul’s favourite people in the world. At least the paparazzi were generally a bit calmer and more respectful post-1997.

_It’s a drag, isn’t it?_ The words repeated in his head.

“Right, you’ve got an hour or two for a photoshoot now, while we work on the track,” Norm told them. He paused for a moment and contemplated George’s hair, which seemed to have a mind of its own right now. “I’m sure you can find a comb somewhere.”

Paul was the only one to hear George’s quiet groan. And he felt like moaning and putting up a fight too because he hated photoshoots – and he was sure that he looked awful, with his hair all over the place and a pale complexion from not eating all day. Were his eyes red from all the crying he’d done in the morning? God, he was all in a muddle today.

“I’ll comb me hair if I can get a sandwich. And maybe a biscuit,” George bargained. “A nice custard cream or a ginger biscuit.”

Wow, Paul had forgotten how high-maintenance George was. He exchanged an amused glance with John.

“Sorry, George,” Norm shrugged. “No time, you can get something to eat later.”

George grumbled a bit and resigned himself to trying to look presentable, Paul doing the same although he knew he was a lost case.

The rest of the afternoon passed agonisingly slowly. Paul was starting to develop a dull headache again, and his stomach seemed to be rumbling in harmony with George’s. All through the photoshoot, there was an uncomfortable feeling of anxiety in the back of his head. Whenever the photographer would instruct them to pose with their instruments or smile for the camera he felt uneasy. After the later years of his life mostly staying out of the spotlight, he wasn’t used to his every move being followed and scrutinised by the press again. And the man would catch them unawares too, snapping photos when they were just talking and joking around together. He didn’t like being watched in private moments with his friends. But he kept his mouth firmly zipped.

_It’s only going to get worse again,_ he thought. _I’m only going to get more famous from now on_.

He felt slightly sick but did his best to keep up the happy public persona that he’d learnt to perfect over 70 years.

Paul’s forced smile may have been enough for the photographer but it clearly wasn’t enough for John.

Lennon was once again watching him like he was fragile, and the concern seemed to pour out of him in waves. Paul, in an attempt to get his friend off his back, pulled a ridiculous face at the camera as it flashed. John snorted and covered his mouth with his hand, trying not to laugh. Ringo turned to John, looking confused, and the cameraman wiped some dust off the lens, looking exasperated at the kids he was working with.

Well, that photograph would turn out awful, with a distracted John staring at Paul and Paul sticking his tongue out. Still, it was worth it to convince John that he’d be ok.

The rest of the photoshoot wasn’t so bad as the Beatles took to amusing themselves by pulling the dumbest faces they could at the last second before a photo was taken. Despite at least one of them pulling a face in every photo, the photographer only caught them a few times, since the photos didn’t develop instantly like cameras from the future. The paper he was with would have a field day trying to sort through those to find a decent photo.

Paul wasn’t sure if them messing around like this happened last time, but he didn’t want to think too much into it.

“Ok, that’s all I need from you, I reckon,” the photographer said after what felt like hours, and he went down the row of them shaking their hands. George gave an audible sigh of relief. “We’ll be in contact soon to let you know when the article is going to be printed. This’ll be good publicity – you boys sure have a lot of charm!”

Paul’s respect for the man went up a little. He was willing to put up with them and spend hours photographing a couple of restless 20-year-olds. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

“Good publicity, he says,” John smirked once the man from the press was gone. “Let’s hope so once ‘e sees those photos.”

“Anyone else for a sandwich?” George inquired.

Paul’s mouth watered. “Yeah, I’m starving. Ta.”

There was an “Aye, sounds good,” from John and an enthusiastic “Egg mayo?” from Ringo.

Harrison went to raid the fridge while the others collapsed into chairs behind Martin, Norman and the assistant engineers Geoff and Richard at the sound board. Martin and Norm seemed to be furiously whispering about something but quietened when John, Paul and Ringo approached.

“Going well?” John inquired.

“Yeah, it’s sounding – fine,” Norm muttered, not meeting their eyes, taking a sip from his tea.

“Well – actually –” Martin started. Norm shook his head at him and grimaced. John and Ringo exchanged confused looks.

Paul’s stomach turned. He knew what was about to come. But surely he had changed that?

“We have a session drummer booked for next week,” Martin continued. “And we’re going to re-record Love Me Do, with Andy on the drums, and Ringo… on tambourine.”

_Fucking tambourine,_ Paul wanted to shout. _Ringo deserves more than a tambourine. He’s going to be a legend, just you wait._

Ringo gaped. “Oh.”

Paul couldn’t hold his tongue. “You can’t do that! Ringo’s drumming was perfect,” he objected. “And the second take was fine!”

Norm looked a little abashed, wanting to stay out of it.

But Martin seemed to be standing by his decision. “I’m sorry, Paul, but you don’t have much say in the matter. See, since before Best was fired, we’ve had White booked as a session drummer for the 11th September. Ringo is new to the band – and I’m still unsure about his abilities.”

Ringo seemed a little embarrassed and Paul felt a sudden surge of protectiveness for his friend. Why had he not defended Ringo and demanded that he be allowed to play drums last time around? How had he not noticed that Ringo took this blow to his confidence right at the start and felt excluded?

George arriving with sandwiches was a pleasant distraction in the tense moment of silence after Martin’s words. “Hey – what’ve I missed?” he asked, setting the plate down, blissfully unaware of Paul staring daggers at the other George.

“Eh – Martin wants us to record Love Me Do again with Ringo on the bloody tambourine,” John muttered, grabbing a cheese sandwich and catching Harrison up. “And he’s replacing ‘im with that Andy fella, the drummer from a couple months ago.”

“Oh, that’s – wait, why? Huh?” George asked, ever the eloquent wordsmith.

Martin bit his lip. “Well, I just think Ringo’s drumming on Love Me Do was a bit… mediocre… and we’ll have a professional drummer, for just this one track since we already have him booked for next week. We can still do Please Please Me with Ringo.”

Mediocre? Sure, maybe Ringo’s groove, his unique way of drumming, was a bit underappreciated in this time, but he sure as hell wasn’t mediocre.

Ringo was staring at the ground, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

“This is bullshit,” Paul muttered under his breath, but the others turned at his words and he knew Martin had also heard. They probably thought he was overreacting but –

God, he was so pissed off. Every frustration from the day was building up in his mind; waking up in 1962 and not having a clue what was going on, then being so weak as to cry in front of his friends, being treated like a kid and told what to do with their music, and now this.

It wasn’t only Martin’s criticism of Ringo that was making him angry – it was the fact he had tried to change something, just one unimportant thing like Ringo playing drums, and he had failed.

Would it be possible to stop the Beatles from falling apart, or stop John and George from dying, if he couldn’t even succeed at this? Would history just correct itself like it did today? Would he have to suffer in silence, watching everything over again, knowing there was nothing he could do?

He was mad at himself.

An irate Paul jumped out of his seat and, still glaring at Martin, leaned over to grab a sandwich and made sure to stomp angrily out the door and slam it behind him. Wow, he hadn’t stalked angrily out of a room like that in years. And he wasn’t really one to throw temper tantrums. But to be fair, Martin’s comments about Ringo being a mediocre drummer were completely uncalled for.

He huffed and took a bite into the sandwich without looking.

He spat it out. And scowled at the chewed-up pink meat on the ground.

“Urgh,” he groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. It was ham. He felt awful. But of course – in 1962 he wasn’t a vegetarian yet and he always had ham or chicken sandwiches. George had just unintentionally broken Paul’s 55-year-long no meat diet and he felt a little sick.

_Damn you, Harrison_, he cursed, throwing the rest of the sandwich into the bushes. Some lucky fox would get a whole meal out of that.

Paul leant his head against the cool metal of the fence outside the studios, breathing in deeply and trying to calm himself down. God, his first day back in the past was already a disaster. He just felt so overwhelmed and emotional, like the tiniest thing would set him off. Seeing his friends alive again _hurt_.

There were footsteps behind him but Paul stayed leaning against the railing, closing his eyes and doing his best to breathe steadily. He still felt woozy from not eating anything all day, and the lingering taste of ham was making him feel nauseous from guilt.

“Hey,” John murmured, putting an arm round his shoulders. “It’s ok. Breathe.”

Paul sighed and stared out at Abbey Road, lit up by streetlights. It was getting dark already; he didn’t know what time it was, maybe 8 or 9pm. They’d spent ages rehearsing and recording, and the photoshoot had taken longer than expected. He was exhausted. “I’m going home,” he decided.

“I’m coming with ya,” John said stubbornly.

Paul didn’t have the energy to argue. He didn’t say anything and just started to make his way back, John walking at his side.

John didn’t say anything either, but it was a comfortable silence. It was nice.

There were sirens and sounds of traffic coming from further away in London but Abbey Road was almost deserted. The lack of cars parked on the road surprised Paul – but then, he supposed that in the 60s it wasn’t usual to own at least two cars per household, unlike in the 2030s. And the ones he did see – oh, they were beautiful, vintage things.

The trees were just starting to turn orange and shed their leaves, which Paul moodily kicked out of the way as he walked. Everything felt so – strange. The air in 1960s London smelled cleaner, and it was chilly but not too chilly. It felt like maybe 13 to 15 degrees… about the same temperature as a December day in 2030.

Paul hadn’t seen snow in the UK in years. Did it snow in the winter of ’62? He couldn’t remember.

When they got back, Paul just collapsed straight into bed, not bothering to take off his shoes, not acknowledging John’s presence.

John laid next to him, resting his head on his shoulder. Paul turned, and his bandmate’s hair tickled his nose.

He was thankful that John seemed to know he didn’t want to talk at the moment. John was probably worried out of his mind, not knowing what the hell was going on, but there was no way Paul could share his time travel concerns with him.

The feelings of guilt and panic were circulating over and over in his brain and wouldn’t slow down. He was such an idiot. He’d stormed out at the end of the session – and that was something that didn’t happen last time. He’d got angry, he’d lashed out at George Martin in an attempt to protect Ringo or something – he’d been foolish. Was he starting to cause friction in the group again? To him, it had been 60 years since he’d last worked with them, and the last time all four had been together all they’d done was argue. Was his controlling nature going to force them towards a premature breakup?

John snored suddenly and Paul jumped at the sudden noise. His mess of thoughts faded away. Just being next to a sleeping, alive John Lennon was calming him down. John looked so innocent and peaceful when he was sleeping and his chest moving up and down comforted Paul.

_John is safe. George is safe._

He pressed a soft kiss against John’s head and breathed in the scent of strawberries, praying that he wouldn’t wake up. “It’s good to have you back,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes. John didn’t stir.

Paul fell asleep with his hand resting against his best friend’s heart.


End file.
